Two

A slender, dark skinned and very handsome young man entered the terminal from Air Force One just then, flanked by two men of his age.

Onesphory Kleruu was the president’s illegitimate son. Bright, articulate, with a British accent bearing a trace of Swahili and a twinkle in his eye, he was now the darling of a dying press and a 21st century media sensation. The two with him were brothers, Ian and Brendan Burke. At six feet tall, Ian matched Onesphory, though the resemblance ended there. He had blue eyes, blond hair and quick, inquisitive eyes. His older brother, Brendan, was also six feet tall, though with brown eyes and hair. All three of them oozed virility and the impatience of youth. There couldn’t have been more excitement behind their masks of “super cool.”

The emergence of Onesphory at the beginning of the president’s bid for re-election had been a bombshell and media phenomenon, one the White House—and Diana in particular—had managed to turn into a positive force. The young man’s story had been presented as a romantic tale of paternal discovery. This quick trip, being interpreted as father and son bonding through an ascent of Kilimanjaro, was an integral part of the president’s campaign. And if the polls were to be trusted, it was working.

The president had been cagey about the extent of his foreign travels as a young man, and a friendly media had not pressed him. There were rumors of every kind, even allegations he’d been born in East Africa and was not qualified to be president, but that story had proved nothing but the willingness of some nut jobs to argue anything. The president had never said he’d been to Africa previously, nor had he said that he hadn’t.

There were two aspects of the story. We were now told that the president had traveled to Tanzania the year before his marriage. He was already seeing the woman who would become the First Lady, but they were not as yet engaged or married. It played out that the trip had been sponsored by a foundation that sought to return potentially prominent African-Americans to their roots in much the same way as Israel provides free trips to Israel for prominent businessmen and politicians. Once in Tanzania, however, the president had gone his own way for a month, barely arriving at the airport in time to catch the return flight. In his rapid rise from local operative into the state house, to Congress, and then the Presidency, there’d never been a hint of this trip.

As Diana and the White House machinery spun the story, the president had wanted to connect with his father’s family. His father was dead by this time, and the pair had only met on a single occasion. According to the official story, the president had spent most of that month in his father’s village, where he’d become enamored with the then tribal chief’s beautiful daughter, Mbalule. She’d just returned from school at Arusha.

It was a match made in heaven—for four weeks at least. The yet-to-be president had returned to America and his political ambitions, marrying the future First Lady the following year. Not long after, Mbalule was married to the son of a nearby tribal chief and later gave birth to a son—a tad too early. The baby, Onesphory, was accepted by Mbalule’s husband and raised as his own. Everyone was reportedly very happy, and life went on.

At that time there had been a power struggle to determine who would be the new clan chief. While the position was no longer one of absolute power, it still carried enormous respect and possessed considerable influence. The chief represented the clan with the Tanzanian government and dispensed largesse from it and NGOs active in his region. Being the former chief’s son was a great advantage, since the position tended to be handed from father to son, though not always. Having a son in Onesphory made it easier for him to consolidate his power, as continuity was assured. A year later, a second son was born.

At some point, Mbalule quietly contacted the president, who was by then a rising star in politics. A supporter stepped up and discreetly sponsored the boy’s education, first in Tanzania, later at a prestigious boys’ school in Britain. He’d been accepted to Harvard and had just finished his first year there.

Ian and Brendan, originally from Scottsdale, Arizona, had spent a college year abroad in Britain, which was where they met Onesphory—at a time before his relationship with the president was known. They’d belonged to the same athletic club, played sports together, and most significantly, climbed together in Scotland. The three were fast friends, the bond made all the stronger by their mutual year at Harvard, where they’d studied and shared a dorm room.

The second part of the story came out at the start of their sophomore year and was nearly as great a sensation as the emergence of a son by the previously childless president. A highly secret division of Homeland Security maintained an extensive DNA database buried within the organizational structure of the National Institute of Health. Known as Code Genome, questions had been raised and remained unanswered as to how this division was obtaining DNA data. At least one media source had reported that certain of its acquisitions were illegal, and any number were claiming that the division routinely violated the privacy of American citizens.

While the overarching mission of the division was still unknown, it had been disclosed that they held a DNA list of all government officials. The concept was to prevent them from being blackmail targets. The program automatically compared all newly acquired DNA samples to those on this list. At one point, Onesphory’s DNA was entered and matched to the president. The details of the president’s life history were well known to the Secret Service by this time, and when advised that it seemed the president had an African born son, the backstory was not difficult to reconstruct. Any chance of keeping the information confidential vanished when the results were leaked and for the first time there was public disclosure of much of his past.

There were surely those on the president’s staff who wanted to squelch the information but it was too late. Onesphory now knew who his real father was, presumably confirmed by his mother. Until then he’d thought that his stepfather was his biological father. After that came the dramatic transatlantic flight, the meeting of the two men, photo ops, and with the careful massaging of the story and the seeming approval of the First Lady, what might have been a disaster was turning into a plus.

The president had sired a son by an African princess, seen to his well-being throughout his life, now publicly acknowledged him and was making this pilgrimage to his son’s birthplace to visit Mbalule, then planned to climb the highest point in Africa with his son. All of this was heady stuff and heavily covered by the media.

And when Onesphory had persuaded his father to make this African pilgrimage he’d insisted his two best friends come along. Onesphory spotted me, poked his buddies, and the trio came over, all grins.

“Welcome to Africa,” Onesphory said. He and I had talked briefly on the flight, and I’d been introduced to his friends, though we’d had yet to have a conversation.

“Yeah,” Ian said. “Don’t get eaten by anything.” His brother laughed. I introduced them all to Tom and Calvin.

“Is your village far?” I asked Onesphory.

“Less than an hour from the Kili international airport, but it is a very different world. I can’t wait to see my mama and baba.”

The thought of asking how his stepfather was taking events crossed my mind, but it wasn’t my place to ask. Either Onesphory didn’t think it was a problem or the possibility hadn’t occurred to him. Instead, I said, “It’s always good to come home.”

“Yes,” he said, “it is very good.”

“Did you really climb Everest twice?” Brendan asked.

“I’m afraid so,” I said. “I don’t recommend the experience.”

“Why not?” Ian said. “I think it’d be awesome.”

“It’s very cold and dangerous.”

“But that’s the reason for climbing it, right?” he said.

“I suppose that argument could be made, yes. Are you all staying at the lodge?”

“Yes,” Onesphory answered. “We’ve got a suite, but we’re going home to visit before we leave on the climb. It’s all nzuri to me.” He grinned. “That means ‘good’ in Swahili.”

“I’m down,” Brendan said, and his brother nodded.

“Just be careful up there,” I cautioned. “The most important part of any climb is not getting injured.”

“Def,” Onesphory said, then waved as the trio moved off.

As we grow older the distance between us and youth becomes a gulf. Somewhere along the way in recent years I’d lost track of the latest youth slang. Nothing made me feel older—or happier not to be their age.

There was a steady stream of passengers entering the terminal as the arriving planes disgorged, and it was getting crowded. Just then I spotted a sign held aloft on a rod. It listed, among others, our three names.

“Looks like our ride has arrived,” Calvin said.

We told the driver who we were and asked after our luggage. He grinned. “I am Nixon. Do not worry. It will be delivered to your rooms. No problem. The van is outside. I will show you. Wait there while I collect the others.”

Though Diana’s comments were finished, the reporters still formed a tight pack at the main doors. Onesphory, I noticed, had gone down the long hall and discreetly exited out the end flanked by agents. Except for one national television interview on SNS, he’d avoided making any public comment. For such a young man he was remarkably self-possessed.

As we left the airport I took in the full measure of the security. Those I’d seen on the tarmac and within the terminal were primarily American. As I’d stood by the van I’d noted others, some now looking local. As we drove away I spotted the third ring of the perimeter, this one comprised of the Tanzanian army. Those along the route had the look of an elite force. At port arms was the Chinese copy of the ubiquitous AK-47.

There was every reason for concern. First, this trip had been organized in a month’s time, not the usual year in advance that is more common for any presidential visit. Second, though the population was 90% Christian, there was a significant Muslim presence in Tanzania and adjacent Kenya with a history of terrorist cells. In 1998, a series of truck bombs directed at the U.S. embassies exploded in Nairobi, Kenya and Dar es Salaam. More than 4,000 people were injured and 223 killed, including 12 embassy employees in Dar es Salaam.

There were certainly assets positioned in locations I’d not detect. There had to be. Where we’d travel and stay the Secret Service made a conscious effort at discretion for public relations reasons. It didn’t do for the president to be seen as moving around while flanked by a Pretorian Guard and riding in a tank. He was, after all, a democratically elected leader. Some Secret Service agents were visible to the casual observer, and I had little trouble spotting those that some might miss.

The rear of at least two SUVs was open, and inside I could see counter-snipers. These steely-eyed experts carefully scanned the terrain we’d just driven over. If there had been an attack on the president or on the convey, our momentum would quickly pass the danger point and these men would take out the attackers before they could follow up. There were surely others looking forward to head off danger, but I didn’t see them.

In addition, mounted on one of the SUVs was a cluster of microphones that looked much like an old style television antenna. This was known as Boomerang. It could detect a gunshot from all other sounds, and the software to which it was connected could determine the direction and distance of the shot within one second. There were likely other counter-snipers ready to be fed just such vital information and to respond accordingly.

The SUV carrying the president was just one of three identical models, and there was no way to know the one in which he rode. Each was state of the art—basically tanks designed to look like ordinary vehicles. They were virtually indestructible, able to withstand all gunshots, automatic weapons up to 50 caliber, even an RPG projectile.

Overhead were three circling Blackhawk helicopters, flying low enough so I could see the spotters with their oversize binoculars scanning the roadway for any threat. I didn’t know how much assurance anyone could take from all this, but it was certainly enough to counter most threats.

But no security is absolute, and many measures that are routinely taken had been skipped because of time constraints. Commonly, anti-American agitators were either detained during a presidential visit or removed far from the activities. Local police also performed frequent security sweeps, taking into custody all the local thugs for hire who might be tempted and picking up those known to be mentally deranged. Such advance measures went a long way in making such a visit more secure.

The drive to the Ngurdoto Mountain Lodge took less than half an hour. In our van we were joined by three others from Air Force One, two men and a woman I’d seen but not spoken to. They smiled but made no introductions.

Kilimanjaro International Airport is located in a remote region of northern Tanzania not far from the border with Kenya. The road was well maintained asphalt. Locals riding bicycles or walking with loads were common along it. This was rural country. The structures and small farms were far apart, with plenty of heavy overgrowth in between. I could easily envision lions stealing lambs or kids.

Again I was taken by the smell of the place. Away from the airport, the air was now tinged with smoke from cooking fires. Kilimanjaro was straight ahead. Of all the Seven Summits, Kili is the oddest in appearance, wider than it is tall. It differs also in that it is not part of a mountain range. It rises from the surrounding plain. It is, in fact, comprised of three dormant volcanoes, the tallest of which is Kibo. At 19,341 feet, Kibo forms the summit of the mountain.

Kilimanjaro was a so-called “sky island”—in this case, an Afromontane one. This meant that the vegetation and animal life on the mountain were restricted to it as if on an island because the plain below was too alien to support them. As we climbed we would ascend through a series of ecological zones created by both elevation and precipitation. Such situations offered the opportunity for research, as both wildlife and vegetation unique to a single sky island were more common than not.

There was enormous biodiversity, including some species unique to the mountain. Kili was best known for its vast variety of forest types, along with the highest cloud forests in Africa. But all this was put at risk by the more than 4,000 climbers who trekked up one of the six approved park routes toward the summit each year. For every climber there were three others carrying supplies, cooking, setting up camps and guiding. Just over 1,000 climbers annually actually made it to the summit.

Illness is an ongoing problem for all climbers. Sadly, I’d witnessed all over the world that climbers treat these glorious mountains like dumps. You approach and climb Everest surrounded by the litter and garbage of previous expeditions. Efforts have long been underway to improve the situation, but it persists. Climbers who would never think of littering back home casually defecate where they like along the route—and even in camp—rather than take the trouble to use the portable potties at established campsites. They toss aside food wrappers, dump uneaten food at will, and in general treat the mountain like a municipal dump. Glance behind any nearby vegetation or hill and you will likely see an expanse of toilet paper.

The consequence over time was contamination all along the route and up the mountain. Streams that appeared to be pristine could not be trusted. Water had to be boiled and filtered, and you had to wash your hands constantly. Despite all these precautions, stomach ailments were nearly universal on climbs. Dysentery and persistent GI track problems were common, as were deaths from heart attacks, strokes and altitude sickness.

And though Kilimanjaro was not the highest, it was tall enough to present all the usual problems associated with high-altitude climbing. Acclimatization was essential, yet it was often sorely neglected, sometimes even by experienced climbers. The consequence was a high degree of altitude sickness. The summit was high enough for climbers to suffer from high altitude pulmonary edema, HAPE for short, or high altitude cerebral edema, HACE. Nearly every climber suffered from discomfort, shortness of breath, hypothermia and headaches. Strokes during an attempt were not uncommon, nor was limited vision, speech difficulty, or numbness of the arms.

Despite its undeserved reputation as a relatively easy climb, more climbers died on Kilimanjaro each year than did on Everest. These deaths were caused most often by hypothermia, as cold and high winds were common, which seemed primarily to affect the poorly dressed porters. Strokes and heart attacks took another toll. Of course, there were some deaths from falls and mountain slides, as well as from various other high altitude ailments. One reason for the significant number of casualties was that far more climbers tackled Kilimanjaro than did Everest.

Still, there was no technical climbing as such. Ascending the mountain was more typically described as a trek than a climb. But the last day was truly demanding. Most expeditions were organized in five relatively undemanding stages until the last day, and this contributed to the death total. The park had once charged climbers by the day. This, plus the relative ease of the early stages, encouraged the expeditions to push up the mountain faster than was safe. The human body needs time to adjust to rapid changes in altitude, and these rapid ascents precipitated a larger number of high altitude incidents on Kili than on any of the Seven Summits. A percentage of these proved fatal. In recent years the park had abandoned the daily charge plan and adopted a “minimum days” rule for each of the approved routes, but a high level of deaths persisted nonetheless.

It was just lunch time when Nixon deposited us at the Ngurdoto Mountain Lodge. We took our place in line to register, then went to our rooms, which were located in lovely, two-story cabanas. In fact, the entire lodge was idyllic in its carefully planned faux-African architecture and manicured gardens. Intermixed among the brush and bushes were sculpted rhinos and elephants, carefully crafted and painted close enough to the real thing to cause more than one double take.

Built on a former coffee plantation, the lodge could accommodate about 400 guests. There were gift shops, a bar, three restaurants and a coffee shop, along with ample conference rooms, as well as all the customary resort amenities to see to the needs of the guests. These conveniences included several pools, a bank of tennis courts, and golf course. The main building was constructed in a semicircle. The primary swimming pool and outside bar was embraced by the wings. The entire property was surrounded by and interspersed with lush, well-tended vegetation.

The location was famous and had been the site of many international conferences, the most noted of which was the G12 summit of 1989. Celebrities of every kind routinely stayed here. Think tanks, ecology groups, brain trusts, all met here for meetings and to enjoy the wonders of East Africa. The grounds were noted for the freely wandering storks and flamingos. Wild animals routinely made their way onto the open spaces, as well, and I’d read that it was not unusual to spot the occasional zebra.

In fact, the economy of this region was structured around the international community, both in terms of politics and tourism. There was the appeal of the mountain itself, the various game preserves known as parks, and the legendary Serengeti Plain. Only recurring rainy seasons prevented the climate near the mountain from being perfect. This climb was planned to just miss one such rainy season—but just barely.

Not far from the airport, but in the opposite direction, was the regional capital, Arusha. Built in 1900, when this was a German colony, I’d read that it was charming little town and home to the East African Community, a sort of regional Common Market. The International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda had turned its operation there into a cottage industry. Other organizations, including NGOs, made their home in Arusha, and as a result there was a large expatriate population.

Outside, across the vast expanse of the land, was the real Africa, as primitive and dangerous as ever. It was one of the few places on earth where large mammals that hunted and ate people still roamed. But within the resort and in the Arusha nightspots it was all Disneyland; very pleasant, to be sure, but as artificial as the jungle cruise.

We three had agreed to meet at the Cane Restaurant, the one with the views, if we could manage to get in given all the dignitaries and hangers-on in abundance. As I crossed the lush grounds toward the restaurant I encountered Robert Martin, my DIA handler. I’d last seen him at Camp David, when he’d also received an award. Recovering the three Inca idols was considered a great coup and his part in the operation was recognized.

He smiled as he came over to me. He was nondescript, a man of grays, dressed even now in a gray suit, wearing wire-framed glasses and sporting short-cropped hair. He might have been in his forties—but was more likely in his sixties.

I’d first met Martin in Afghanistan, where I’d been assigned to Kabul after the successful ouster of the Taliban. This was when I’d first met Diana and it was during these months our affair had been kindled. Martin had asked me to perform a routine surveillance for him, which I’d done out of boredom as much as anything. I believed he’d been instrumental in getting me my position at the Center, and over the last few years he’d sent me on a few assignments. That was how I’d ended up in Russia climbing Elbrus and nearly being killed.⁴ He was why I’d climbed Puncak Jaya in Papua and again had nearly been killed.⁵ He’d also sent me to Aconcagua and Vinson Massif in pursuit of the idols—and nearly got me killed for a third and fourth time.

Well, I was finished with all that. Since I’d never been officially on the payroll, I didn’t bother turning in my resignation.

“I see you got an invite, too,” he said.

“I didn’t know you climbed mountains.”

“Not me. I leave that to you young guys. I’ll go up a bit then wait for your triumphant return.”

“Don’t tell me the DIA has an operation underway.”

“No, nothing like that. In fact, I retired last month. I’ve got some meetings with NGOs working here after the climb.”

“Turning over a new leaf, are you?”

“After a fashion.”

There’s a saying in the intelligence community: once a spook, always a spook. And Non-Governmental Organizations, typically charities of some type, were well known fronts. I glanced at my watch. “I’m meeting friends so I’ll see you later, maybe.”

“That’s likely. It’s a zoo, but a small one.” With that he smiled and patted me on the back as he set off.

4 See Murder on Elbrus.

5 See Murder on Puncak Jaya.